The Prince of Eden (32 page)

There was something so pathetically urgent in the plea that Jane had no choice but to obey. Still smoldering, she watched through narrowed eyes as Caleb Cranford summoned two uniformed stewards to his side. She continued to watch as the man whispered something to the two men. As the stewards started down the steps, she saw Caleb's triumphant smile. "You arc accustomed to looking after yourself. Miss Locke," he beamed. "Her Ladyship is not."

Jane looked first at the stewards, then at Marianne, who continued to stand as though reprimanded. She glanced back up at Caleb, who stood at the top of the stairs, his hands behind his back, as though he were Lord of the Castle. Merciful heavens, she thought sadly, how times had changed.

As they started across the inner courtyard, Jane was aware of the stewards falling into place about ten feet behind. "I never thought I'd live to see the day. Why do you permit them to stay?" she asked bluntly. "They've passed the point of usefulness to you and your children. Why don't you send them packing back to Yorkshire where they belong."

Again Marianne shushed her as they were approaching the gate and guardsmen. Jane observed quietly as Marianne spoke to them all, calling them by their first names, inquiring of one or two about wives and children. The men responded with respect, quickly drawing up the twin grilles, then standing a distance back for the ladies to pass. To one gnarled old man on the other side, Marianne made a specific request. "Samson," she began, "if my son Edward arrives in our absence, please sound the bell loudly. We're going down into Mortemouth. I can hear the summons from there."

"Aye, milady," the old man grinned. He went on, flattered that the Countess Dowager had singled him out for a personal request. "We've sent riders as far as Taunton to be on the lookout. We'll have word soon, I'm certain, of Mr. Edward's approach."

Marianne smiled, grateful, then again took Jane's arm for the slight incline which led down to the beginning of the cliff" walk. Behind them trailed the two stewards, moving closer now, or so it seemed to Jane, as though their task was not only to oversee, but to overhear as well.

Bending her head into the wind, Jane felt a trace of that cunning which in the past had supplied her with what she wanted. As they

drew near the beginning of the steep walk downward, she pulled away from Marianne and moved back toward the stewards. As she approached, she withdrew a small purse from her pocket. "A pound note for each of you," she announced, "if you'll stretch out in these soft grasses here and take a nap."

The two young men looked briefly at each other, then at the money being offered them.

"Two pounds apiece," Jane went on, "if you'll wait here for us and keep your mouths shut."

How easily certain obstacles were overcome. With deferential bows, they took the money and wandered a distance away, looking vaguely about as though searching for a likely spot in which to take their rest.

Her faith in servants intact, Jane returned to Marianne, who apparently was in the mood to protest everything. "You shouldn't have done that," she scolded. "They'll take your money and tell Caleb anyway."

"Then let them," Jane purred. "You can sack the lot of them and I'll help you."

As she led the way down the cHfT walk, she looked back now and then at Marianne. At first it seemed as though all her energy and attention was focused on the steep descent.

But at midpoint, as Jane looked back again, she saw her sister in close examination of a clump of sea lavender, her eyes assuming a strange, faraway expression. "We used to gather armloads as children," Jane called back. "Do you remember?"

Marianne looked up and nodded. Jane noticed high color rising on her cheeks and thought, good.

A quarter of an hour later, at the bottom at last, they both paused to make repairs. Jane hastily withdrew her handkerchief and patted her brow where a sweat of exertion had broken out.

Marianne smiled. "It was your idea."

"Yes," Jane replied, taking full responsibility. "And I'm glad we've come."

As they strolled together, they said nothing. Their dim eyes sought out familiar passageways and the glories of small gardens. As they turned into the street which fronted the ocean, the foot traffic increased, causing Marianne to marvel, "It's grown. So many people."

Jane nodded and tightened her grip on her sister's arm as though to lend her support. She noticed a few faces look up, look away, then glance quickly back as though suffering belated recognition. Then mysteriously the foot traffic seemed to clear for their passage, the older men quickly removing their hats, the women all curtseying.

"We should have worn masks," Jane whispered, as she saw Marianne

inclining her head in first one direction, then the other. But in spite of the increasing recognition, no one made any attempt to speak to them or stop them in any way, and they were permitted to walk the length of the street, uninterrupted, following the pavement as it veered upward into the narrow lane which they both knew by heart.

As Marianne caught sight of the cottage, she halted.

"Shall we knock," Jane suggested softly, "and ask for a cup of tea?"

"Oh, we couldn't," Marianne gasped, as though she'd taken the suggestion seriously.

As they drew even with the small cottage, Jane noticed an air of emptiness about it. She separated herself from Marianne and walked close to a crumbling white picket fence and peered over into a sadly neglected front garden. "I do believe there's no one home," she called back.

But still Marianne protested. "Come away," she whispered sternly. "They'll see you."

In spite of the protests coming from Marianne, Jane laid the broken gate to one side and stepped through to the gravel walk, always keeping a sharp eye on the small windows which flanked the front door.

But there was no sign of movement. She stuck her head through the upper half of the Dutch door. The interior was chaos, overturned chairs, a broken table, a tattered white curtain fluttering in the breeze of the opened back door. She entered the low narrow room, looking carefully about for the first reason to flee. A moment later Marianne followed after her.

They stood, unspeaking, in the ruined interior of their childhood home.

As their bleak inspection extended to the remaining two rooms, the fact of abandonment was confirmed. "It's in dreadful shape," Marianne commented, lifting her finger to a dust-covered table in the rear bedroom which once had been hers.

No longer feeling the need for either whispering or stealth, Jane gingerly righted two of the fallen chairs. Her cerise gown already soiled, she made an attempt to dust the chairs, then gave up and sat heavily, her legs spread a distance apart. "Good God," she exclaimed, looking about. "It's shrunk. Can you imagine at one time five of us existing here? Can you believe it? You, me, Russell, Father, and old Jenny Toppinger, all brushing up against each other, and hating each other in the process."

Marianne appeared in the doorway. "I hated no one," she smiled. "And I remember it all with a certain fondness."

"You would," Jane said, a soft sarcasm filling her voice.

But it was not the past that plagued Jane. The past was over, and as she had always been a practical woman, she realized this and was capable of dealing effortlessly with it. No, the future was the concern now, both for her sister and for herself. With William's death, she had sold the house on Great Russell Street in London. Wise enough to know that William's literary friends would not necessarily extend their friendship to her, she had packed her belongings and had now come to Eden Castle to stay. She had envisioned for herself and for Marianne, long fireside chats, resurrecting pleasantly that part of the past that was worthy of resurrection, the whole closing chapter of her life free from tension and hostility and drama. Now from the increasingly sorrowing look on her sister's face and from the memory of her encounter with the despicable Mr. Cranford, she realized with a sigh that she would have to take matters into her own hands if she was to achieve her desire for the future.

"When did you lose it?" she asked now, almost blithely, trying to shatter the room's hold on her sister.

Marianne looked sharply up. "I—beg your pardon?" she stammered. "Lose-what?"

"Your ability to control people," Jane replied without hesitation. "William said time and time again that you should have been born male. He said you would have made a brilliant general."

But Marianne seemed to grow more depressed. "William said a great deal," she murmured.

"He meant that, though," Jane persisted. "It was one of the first characteristics that attracted him to you." She stood now. As she ran a finger along a dusty sill, she longed for a greater skill of diplomacy. But she had been born blunt and apparently she would die so. "Why did you not dismiss the Cranfords years ago?" she asked now.

For an instant the confusion in Marianne's eyes mounted. "I—don't understand—" she said.

"Of course you do," Jane replied, slowly encircling the chair where she sat. "Why do they stay?" she asked again. "Why have you permitted them to stay?"

Marianne leaned back in the chair. When it seemed to Jane that she would never speak, she spoke, her voice low. "Am I unique, Jane, or do all women find a conflict between being a wife and a mother? I looked at my children and saw need. And I looked at Thomas and I saw need."

She glanced across at Jane and announced sternly, as though it were something she should have known, "The Cranfords took over my duties

with the children, and in the process, took over my children as well." She walked the short distance to the door and appeared to be gazing out at the overgrown garden. "If I were to dismiss Sophia Cranford today," she said calmly, "I would never see my daughter again. If I were to dismiss Caleb Cranford, James would go with him. As for Edward, I doubt seriously if he has any real need for any of us." She paused, then turned back to Jane. "How wise you were not to have children," she smiled.

For a moment, Jane foundered. She had wanted nothing so desperately as she had wanted children, William's children.

"And what are the Cranfords up to now?" she asked, feeling unqualified to pursue the matter of children.

Marianne shrugged, her eyes still devouring every corner of the room. "A lawsuit," she said flatly. "They have aligned themselves with Sir Claudius Potter and have convinced James that a lawsuit is the only way to recover the estates from Edward."

"Good God," Jane gasped, beginning to understand for the first time the black mood which had enveloped her sister. "And what do you intend to do about it?" she asked quietly.

Marianne shook her head. "What can I do, dear Jane? Please tell me, if you know. I've told Sir Claudius that there will be no lawsuit while I'm alive. But we all know that I am powerless to stop it."

She turned away, rubbing her arms as though she were cold in the June heat. There was silence in the small room. Only the distant bird calls sounded in the back garden.

Jane placed a hand on her sister's arm, as though again to summon her attention. "There is something you can do," she smiled. As Marianne looked up, Jane went on in her most persuasive tone. "You can remember who you are," she said firmly. Her voice continued to rise as though she were literally trying to send the words through the pale countenence before her. "You are Lady Eden, the Countess Dowager, widow of a peer of the realm." She stepped in front of Marianne and grasped her by the shoulders as though to shake her out of her lethargy. "There was a time when you convinced all of England of that fact. Now all you must do is convince two Yorkshire scoundrels."

Marianne returned her sister's gaze, a look of disbelief on her face. But out of that disbelief a smile emerged. "I may need daily reminders."

"And I shall be here to supply you with them."

The two women embraced. While Jane was not absolutely certain what, if anything, she had accomplished, at least, there was a semblance of peace on her sister's face.

Just as the embrace was coming to a conclusion, she felt Marianne stiflen. "Listen!" she whispered.

Obediently Jane listened and heard nothing. "What is—"

But Marianne merely shushed her and again whispered, "Listen. It's the gate bell. Don't you hear it?"

In all honesty, Jane had to confess, "No, it's probably just a buoy out at sea."

"No," Marianne smiled. "It's the gate bell, I know it. It's Edward-" She dashed back to the chair and retrieved her bonnet and was well on her way to the door before Jane could restrain her. "Marianne," she scolded her, "consider your age as well as your position. If it's Edward, he will wait. He's kept you waiting long enough."

She had not intended for her voice to be so stern, but at least her words had accomplished their purpose. The clearly agitated Marianne seemed to be making an effort to rein in her enthusiasm. Almost sedately now, she placed the bonnet on her head and carefully tied the ribbons.

Outside in the garden, the gate bell was audible even to Jane. "I hear it now," she said. "Apparently your wandering son has come home."

Marianne smiled a most radiant smile and increased her pace. But again Jane stopped her. At the gate, she pointed toward the end of the narrow lane where a fair-sized crowd of curious Mortemouth citizens had gathered. Apparently news of the Countess Dowager's presence among them had spread.

"Pay them decent respect," Jane counseled, keeping her voice low. "It will take only a minute. In the future their allegiance could be of vast importance to you."

For a minute she saw a splintered look on Marianne's face as she was clearly torn between the frantically ringing bell and the little knot of onlookers. But again she took Jane's counsel, adjusted her summer cape, and led the way down the lane, her head erect, the same stance and attitude of her younger days, a born countess. Let the Cranfords confront that, Jane thought, pleased with herself.

As they drew near, the crowd parted, the men swiftly removing their hats. Graciously Marianne greeted them, speaking aloud on occasion and at other times merely bobbing her head. Once through the small crowd, she seemed determined again to increase her step. But again Jane drew near and restrained her. "It will do no good to arrive in the inner courtyard breathless and undone. Your son will wait, I promise."